


Callahan's Crosstown Diner

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Callahan's Crosstown Diner [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 80s Music, Alternate Universe - Diners, Coffee, Diners, Food Porn, M/M, Mutant Powers, Natasha likes spicy food, POV Third Person Plural, Phil loves pancakes, Pining, Pre-Movie(s), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Steve Needs a Hug, only hints of a relationship, really hard to describe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rumors, if they’re to be believed, are that people who need it find the place. Like an oasis in a storm, the diner has withstood blizzards, hurricanes, stock market crashes, and 9-11. Sometimes it fades into the brick facade and other times it’s lit up, a beacon in the night. Nobody seems to know how it got there and lots of different stories float around, but the truth of the matter is that it’s the type of joint where everybody really does know your name and the food’s amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Callahan's Crosstown Diner

**Author's Note:**

> I have no real explanation or description for this. The idea came to me one day about a diner where the Avengers wander in on occasion. My daughter came up with the notion that the workers in the diner all had tiny little mutant powers, the kind that are more like a parlor trick, so minor they'd never find their way to Xavier's school. We had fun coming up with all of them and the next thing I knew I was writing this as a series of vignettes with a different OC's first person POV. I have ideas for more of these in the series. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> I have to give credit to Spider Robinson's famous series of novels called Callahan's Crosstime Saloon as the inspiration for the diner.

Somewhere in Midtown, tucked around a corner and halfway down an alley, sits what looks like an old silver Streamline camper. Three times as big but just as bullet shaped and shiny, the place balances on a cinder block foundation that couldn’t have passed the city code inspection, assuming they’ve ever had one. A bright blue stripe runs the length at shoulder height, the rectangular windows centered inside of it. A flashing neon sign over the far end door, facing Fourth Avenue, proclaims it as a DINER; laminated papers are scotch-taped along the jamb. OPEN 24 HOURS, one says. Another says VOTED BEST BURGER IN THE TRI-BORO AREA  (2008 People’s Choice for New Yorker’s Daily). A small folding chalkboard lists the day’s specials with names like COME ON EILEEN (Irish malt bread with rashers, lettuce, tomato, and a Guinness mayo plus chips) and TURNING JAPANESE (Wasabi tuna maitake melt sandwich with tobiko mayo and rice cakes).

How the place stays in business, no one knows. The locals tend to walk past it without a second glance. There’s no advertisements, no coupons in the mail, no email blasts. But somehow, on even the worst of a New York wintery day, the place is open, warm glow of yellow lights casting shadows on the slushy pavement. The health inspector, they say, had to try four times to find the joint; even after she took a raise and a promotion, she still comes to eat there at least once a week. The pretentious critic from the Times, the one who once wrote “if clowns had a a cuisine, this would be it” about a new restaurant, ended up wandering for over an hour and never darkened the door. But the foodie blogger who was looking for the best grilled cheese in the Big Apple walked right in and waxed poetic for weeks about the cider apple cheddar on sourdough bread.

The rumors, if they’re to be believed, are that people who need it find the place. Like an oasis in a storm, the diner has withstood blizzards, hurricanes, stock market crashes, and 9-11. Sometimes it fades into the brick facade and other times it’s lit up, a beacon in the night. Nobody seems to know how it got there and lots of different stories float around, but the truth of the matter is that it’s the type of joint where everybody really does know your name and the food’s amazing.

It’s called Callahan’s Crosstown Diner.

And it’s a little bit out of the way which, as it turns out, is a good thing.

**ANDY CALLAHAN**

“Order up!” I called but Rita had already picked up the plates, balancing three on one arm as she headed to the booth full of late night theatre goers. Even though the district’s a good hike from here, we still got regulars who liked to drop in and stick around for awhile, drinking coffee and talking about the show. This batch were two couples who lived just over on the next block; they had season tickets and always ordered the exact same thing, two basic burgers and chips, a Thai salad and a reuben on rye. Never have understood people who don’t try new things, but, hey, they’re steady customers and their money keeps the lights on.

“Going to get started on the fixings for tomorrow’s special,” Lorena said. She already had a pile of green peppers, diakons and cranberries out on her board. “And I’ll get the meatloaf ready to go before I leave.”  

Her hand flew as she began to dice, a steady rhythm of knife against the cutting board. Rena had been with me the longest; I liked to kid her about her chopping skills but she kept her childhood close to her vest. All I knew was that she was from Canada and thought New Yorkers were whiners when it came to snow. Didn’t matter to me; she was my right hand and I don’t know how I’d run this place without her.

I always like this time of night, when it’s just me, manning the grill and a few others. Rita was off shift at midnight; her brother would be by to walk her home since her family worried about her even if she was nineteen. Transplants from India, her parents wanted her and her brother to have all the opportunities the U.S. could offer. Rita, with her long braid falling down her back and her quiet voice, would rather study hard and work her shifts than chase the American dream.

Kayla, my head waitress, would finish out the night while her baby boy slept at his halmoni’s apartment. That just left Roy running the counter, brewing up coffee that would wake the dead for those all-nighter types who needed a shot to keep going and Mal cleaning up, wiping down tables and fiddling with the old toaster at the end of the bar.

“Table four wants a Warrior shrimp, a Genesis burger, and two orders of sweet potato chips.” Kayla stuck the ticket up and spun it around.

“Is that what they ordered?” I have to ask because Kayla has her own way of doing things and sometimes that includes changing the customer’s mind for them. Well, not changing their mind, more like dipping into it a bit.

“Have we had a complaint yet?” She asked, flashing me a cheeky grin. When she’d come into the place looking for a job, I’d had my doubts and, sure enough, she turned out to be a handful, especially when her dander was up. First time she started dumping food on the table before the customers could order it, I thought for sure I was going to get a rush of bitching about attitude and service. But it never happened; if there was one thing Kayla knew, it was how to match people and food.

“Just be careful,” I warned, not that she’d listen. Tonight was a bad one; she’d rolled in for her shift with steam pouring out of her ears, unloading over a cup of Roy’s mocha latte about deadbeat fathers who’d rather screw around with teenaged girls than come to his son’s first birthday party. I was lucky she was even talking to the tables before she slammed some food down.

I pulled out a veggie patty and put it on the grill, making note to myself to make more for tomorrow; we were running low. Then I started the shrimp, dipping them in the buttermilk cayenne sauce and dusting them with white cornmeal and panko crumbs before dropping them into the hot oil. A quick mix of ginger, rice vinegar, garlic, diced bird peppers, curry gewürz, and a sprinkle of sugar combined with a cup of shrimp stock for the chili sauce. A dollop of jasmine rice as a bed, toss the golden brown shrimp in the sauce, and add three drops of sriracha around the edge and the plate was ready. The basil pesto sauce for the burger was fast and easy, spread on the toasted buns Lorena had ready and layered with a fried green tomato, arugula and a juicy slice of pineapple.

Just as I salted down the orders of sweet potato chips, the bell above the door jingled and a new group of customers came in. I glanced their way as the man in the lead entered the room, choosing a corner booth and sauntering over. My first thought was that the man’s suit would pay my rent for the month, and then I noticed the way he weaved slightly, holding onto the coat rungs to stay upright. Roy’s nose wrinkled, the smell of alcohol strong enough to waft behind the man as he moved down the tight aisle between the booths and the counter stools. Dark sunglasses perched on his nose, pulled down so his brown blood-shot eyes could survey the room to see if he was being watched. Someone as famous as Tony Stark was impossible not to notice, even for me, and that’s saying a lot since I rarely watch television. The news depresses me; I got enough of doom and gloom when I was in the service. I really don’t want to know the world I risked my life for is still going to hell in a handbasket on a daily basis. But there was no way I hadn’t heard about the whole kidnapping and subsequent “I am Iron Man” thing. You’d have to be living under a rock to avoid that bit of joy and sunshine.

Behind Stark was a petite blonde in sky high heels and a perfect white suit. My second ex could get by with clothes like that, wear white all day and never get a single stain. Me, I’m covered in grease spots within twenty minutes of walking in the kitchen. Today I had chili AND clam sauce spatters on what used to be a white apron. A second person, chin up, back straight, had to be military, an African American gentleman who looked more than put out at Stark’s antics.

“Tony,” he said. “Is this really a good idea?”

“You’re the one who said I needed to slow down and eat something. So here we are. Diner. Food. Eating. Voila!” Stark threw his hands out, lost his balance but ended up on the red vinyl seat of the booth, only managing to knock over the salt shaker. “Sit down, Rhodey. Look at the menu. Order some coffee.”

Rhodey and the woman exchanged looks, scooting into the other seat since Stark didn’t leave them any room.

“Start a Frankie Goes to Hollywood, an A-ha salad, and a onion Melt with Me. Garlic chipotle fries. Potatoes and gravy with the melt.” Kayla wrote the order out and handed it over before she went to Roy and bent her head, the two consulting.

“She’s going to do it, isn’t she?” Mal stood on the other side of the window. “Order for Tony Stark.”

Didn’t do any good to stir things up, so I just shrugged because Kayla was a force of nature. She did what she wanted to. “Yeah, well, can’t be that bad, can it?”

“Oh, Garcon!” Stark called, waving his phone in the direction of the counter. “Order up!”

Kayla deliberately turned her back on the booth, filling up three glasses with ice and water while Roy made three cups of coffee. Only then did she walk over, sitting the drinks down in front of each of them, the Americano with a shot in front of Stark, the straight latte in front Rhodey, and a salted caramel mocha for the lady. Then she walked away.

“Hey!” Stark called. “I didn’t order this!”

“You said you wanted coffee, Tony,” the woman said. “Surely you can’t complain at fast service.” She sipped her own drink, looked down and smiled. “Oh, this is delicious.”

Stark picked up his and took a long drink of the hot liquid. His eyes opened wide, and he sipped a second time, slower, savoring the flavor. “Okay, not bad. It’s certainly got a kick. Now I need a burger. Let’s see, cheeseburger, cheeseburger … what’s up with these names? Someone’s got a hard on for the 80s?”

Yeah, I have a soft spot for 80s pop music. One hit wonders; that was me all over. My life had been a long list of almost but not quite; two semesters of college as a chemistry major, a six year stint in the Navy, two failed relationships, and a laundry list of crappy jobs that went nowhere. Sue me; I’ve got a twisted sense of humor.

The burger was easy: a Frankie was usually a half pound of ground angus, but I replace it with the wagyu the Thursday night yuppie crowd liked. Breadcrumbs from yesterdays buttery rosemary croutons and an egg was all he needed; the meat was so tender it required very little salt or other seasonings. A thin slice of gruyere melted on top of it. The sunny side up egg was quick and thin slice of pate fried up nicely to pair with the artichoke spread. I layered it all up on the toasted brioche bun with butter lettuce for crunch. Razor thin potatoes tossed in seasoning went into a paper holder.

A sear on the two sides of a slab of ahi tuna, sprinkled with sesame seeds, and I grilled some cipollinis and tossed them in a soy chipotle sauce. Thick slice of Texas toast, tuna, onions, and a generous scoop of parmesan potatoes and a drizzle of a simple gravy that matched the flavor profile of the sauce.

The salad was the fastest. Mixed mizuna and mesclun, leaves with a peppery kick, dried cranberries, some of the diced daikon, sliced almonds, dark rye croutons, a crumbling of Kavli cheese made a bed for the smoked salmon soaked in the same soy chipotle sauce for the tuna. Dots of cream and caviar for decoration and it was finished.

When I cook, I get caught up in the making; the ingredients speak to me. They always have. Rena says I never make the same dish the same way twice, and she’s right. Each time, I tweak the balance, more salt, less salt, spicier, milder, depending upon the customer. Sometimes it’s the weather or my mood or just a whim -- I follow my muse. I prefer to call it that rather than the more schizophrenic “I hear voices” answer.

My nana taught me to cook; in her kitchen in Harlem, I learned that recipes were just guidelines. She called it cooking with love -- a pinch in every dish -- and I’d rather be making biscuits with her than hanging out on the corner, looking for trouble. First time I knew I was weird was when I took a home ec class in high school, thinking it’d be an easy A. I failed the final because I argued with the teacher about replacing mayonnaise with creme fraiche in potato salad. Working as a cook in the Navy meant more rules to follow, but at least I learned skills that saw me through the rest of my life.

“Hey!” Stark looked up as Kayla dropped the plate in front of him. “Cheeseburger!”

She was nicer about the others, sliding their food into place and smiling at them. “Unsweetened iced tea,” she nodded to the blonde. “Chocolate milkshake,” she said to Rhodey. “And another caffe americano with a shot,” she said to Stark.

“How the hell are you doing that?” Stark looked up at her. “Are you psychic or something?”

“I’m a mom,” she replied, spinning around to get their drinks.

Stark laughed as he picked up his burger. “I like her,” he said before taking a big bite. He stopped, chewed slowly, examined the burger like it was a science experiment. “Holy hell. This is better than most sex I’ve had.”

“No,” Rhodey disagreed. “This is better than most of the sex you’ve had.” He forked up a bite and held it out. Stark bent over and took the whole thing, dangling onions and all, into his mouth.

“Oh my God. Pepper, you’ve got to try these,” he declared. “How’s your salad? Let me see.” He waved a fork in her direction.

Pepper Potts, because of course that’s who she was, shook her head. “Keep your hands off of my food, Tony. I’m serious. If you want to ever walk again, you will not touch this.”

“Oh, ho, is that a challenge?” Tony dropped his shades on the table and waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’ve got fries. I’ll trade you a couple of these …” he shoved a few of the tiny slivers into his mouth and then gave a full-out porno quality moan. “No, I take that back. You can’t have any. These are mine.”

“Fine, Tony. One bite,” she sighed and slid the plate towards the him. He gathered up a bit of everything and popped it in his mouth as she snatched a few fries. “Oh. Oh.” She sat back and licked the spicy salt off her fingers. “Those are definitely worth an hour or two in the gym.”

Kayla interrupted with their second round of drinks, homemade peach tea for Pepper, towering glass full of chocolate shake for Rhodey and another coffee for Stark.

“I’m going to need one of those,” Stark told her, pointing at Rhodey’s shake. “Oh yes, I need that.”

“Drink your coffee first. You’ll feel better,” Kayla said. “Then I might get you a malted milk ball shake.”

“Marry me,” Stark shouted after her. “And tell the chef I want to hire him full-time.”

“Okay, I’ll admit when I’m wrong,” Rhodey said, a milk mustache along his upper lip. “This was a good idea.”

“That’s right,” Tony smiled, taking a gulp of coffee. “Unhuh, I’m good, alright. Now, what was that about the Stark Expo? A flying car is off the agenda?”

Pepper just shook her head and pulled her food out of the reach of Tony’s fork, laughing as she did.

**SARAH CARSON**

I was knee deep in last week’s receipts when the two of them came in looking all men-in-black with their dark suits and sharp ties. I’d just ducked beneath the counter to get the cigar box where Kris keeps the comp meals and the first view I got was a very nice blue silk pocket square then kind eyes behind black frames. The older of the two smiled at me and I smiled back; his companion, young, golden skinned, cute in an accountant kind of way if the accountant was also musclely and fit. You know what I mean, the way FBI computer guys are portrayed on TV.  I nodded to them both and took my stacks of paper down to the end of the counter to begin sorting them into the seventeen different categories. Andy always complains he can’t understand the difference between tax deferred and tax deferred with interest, but numbers are numbers, I say. Good thing someone around here can balance the books.

“I’m telling you, Phil,” the Latino man was saying, “the reviewer said this place has pancakes to die for. Coconut almond and apple bacon. Bacon, Phil.”

“You think pancakes are going to make up for the clusterfuck that was Malibu, Jasper?” Phil rubbed his temples, his brow tight as he squinted his eyes and picked up the breakfast menu to peruse the listings, turning his white porcelain cup up when Kris offered him some regular coffee.

“Pancakes make everything better.” Jasper added a bit of the real cream that Kris set out in a little silver pitcher and a single packet of sugar before he sipped, blowing carefully to cool it first. “That’s a damn fine cup of coffee.”

“If you start ordering pie and talking about Laura, I’m going to hit you.” Phil nursed his cup, holding it between both hands and taking it black. He breathed in the scent of the hand ground beans, a special mixture that Roy made every day. A bit of tension dropped out of Phil’s shoulders as he drank.

“Would you gentlemen like to hear the specials?” Kris asked. Today he was sporting a red plaid shirt unbuttoned so his white t-shirt showed, pulling across his muscles. He was proud of his body, working out religiously to keep in shape.

When Phil and Jasper turned their attention to Kris, they really looked at him, taking in all the details as if their lives depended upon it. Interesting … Kris didn’t try to hide his gender switch under floppy clothes and yet neither so much as blinked before Jasper replied, “Yes please.”

Kris rattled off the breakfast deals and I started adding it all together. Ever since Tony Stark had started coming in on a regularly basis, I’d sort of started keeping up with his life. It wasn’t because he was a huge tipper and tended to order a lot, despite what Andy teased me about balancing the books. I liked the guy and his PA Pepper was nice. She knew my name and asked how my mom was every time she came in, whether for food or just coffee. And Stark was, underneath the bluff and mask of indifference, a good man if someone would just show him how to be. So I knew about Stark Expo going to hell and the big party out in Malibu and it seemed that I remembered Pepper mentioning a Phil who had been a big help one time when she bought a carrier full of lattes. Anyone who’d been involved in that mess probably looked just as worn out as Phil did.

I got lost in the numbers for a bit, picking up only pieces of the conversation around me as I flew through the totals.  Joy was in her booth, laptop open like always, pot of chai tea and plate of beignets half gone; she was chatting with Rita about her latest assignment for her composition class. Andy was listening to some 80s station in the kitchen as Mark stocked the storeroom from the morning delivery.

“... be hot there, so I packed a shit ton of sunscreen. Nothing worse than a burnt scalp,” Jasper was saying as their food arrived. He’d gone with the Red, Red Wine, Finnish pancakes with a raspberry red wine syrup. Phil had chosen the classic Summer of ‘69, a short stack of lemon buttermilk pancakes topped with butter cream and strawberries. “I have to pick up a replacement set of sunglasses since I left mine at the …” He paused to fork up the first bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I have tasted heaven, Phil. Kill me now. Everything will be a let down after this.”

“Quit being such a diva,” Phil replied then put his own first bite in his mouth.

Watching new people eat Andy’s food never got old. The man was a genius with flavors, mixing things no one would ever think to put together into tastebud nirvana. Man could be making lots of money in a fancy place, one of those with tiny tables and even tinier portions and waiting lists a mile long. But he liked this joint and the motley crew who worked here, or so he said.

“Refill?” Kris asked. Both men nodded. “Let me get that.” He reached across and took the sticky napkin from Phil’s hands, brushing his fingers across the back. Shoulders slumped even more and Phil smiled, lines smoothing away as he cut another wedge.

“I’d come back just for the coffee,” Phil told Kris. “It is good.”

“Yeah, we hear that a lot,” Kris said. I saw the flinch as Kris took Phil’s pain and let it roll through him instead. It was a little thing, what Kris could do, but sometimes the tiniest bit of relief made a world of difference.

“You taking Barton with you?” Jasper asked. Phil quirked an eyebrow at the other man but said nothing. “Come on, Phil, long boring assignment, lots of sun, tank tops …”

“I can reassign you, you know,” Phil warned, but the sides of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. He was making inroads on his plate, cutting neat little wedges of pancake layered with cream and berries. “But, damn it, you were right about the food here. I’m going to dream about these.”

“Told you it’d be worth it,” Jasper said. “And so will talking to Barton. He’s a sure thing, I’m telling you.”

Phil didn’t deign to answer, too busy chewing and sipping coffee.

**SEBASTIAN MORGAN**

The snow was really piling up outside which meant a long wet slog through the slush to my audition at three. All that time this morning I spent on relaxing my hair would be undone within minutes under my old battered Knicks cap. Seriously, Fate has a hard-on for me; she keeps kicking my ass to the curb and I’m beginning to believe this whole acting thing is never going to work out. Guy’s gotta eat sometimes and that takes food. I already live in a closet -- no, seriously, it’s a walk-in closet. I rent it from the four guys who share the one bedroom and the living room. I get a mattress on the floor, bathroom privileges and shared kitchen time, although there’s an electrical outlet so I can have my mini-fridge on all the time and alternate between the baby microwave and the TV to watch DVDs. Wifi’s included, thank God.

Anyway, they came in right in the heaviest bit, when even the constant stream of traffic on 4th couldn’t keep the street clear; they stamped their black boots on the industrial carpet in the doorway and hung their dripping coats on the rack with the buckets under it. The Red Head … because, man, there was no way to describe her except with caps … scanned the whole diner in seconds, her eyes flitting over me without so much as a hesitation, before they took the last free booth. Despite the weather, or probably because of it, we’d been packed all through the lunch rush, people filling up on the soup special today, Karma Karma Chicken Curry.

The guy screamed muscle -- black hoodie over worn grey henley over bulging biceps, fitted black jeans, and a shoulder holster. No suit, so not a fed. I had a good eye for cops, and this guy wasn’t one. The Red Head, well, my grandma did raise no dummy. She was deadly, no question about it; she was rubbing her arms over the long sleeves of her black sweater to warm up.

“Hello,” I opened with as I stepped up to the table. “Can I get you something warm to drink? Roy’s coffee’s the best and his Mexican hot chocolate’s pretty orgasmic.”

“Oh, we can reenact when Harry met Sally, Tasha. Order the hot chocolate, please?” The guy had blue-grey eyes that twinkled as he spoke. “I want a big cup of straight up coffee, high octane.”

“Hot chocolate sounds good,” the woman said. “And that soup smells wonderful.”

“It’s Thai and very spicy, I have to warn you. Not pretend hot, but lip burn hot. It’s worth it, though.” I never lied to customers; Andy’s curry soup was filled with chicken and mushrooms and plump shrimp, all swimming in a peppery broth. “It’s our daily soup special. We’ve also got Mexican Radio Tamale Grilled Cheese;  spicy chicken enchilada meat with fresh queso between two slices of deep fried corn bread and covered in green chili sauce. And, if you’re eating healthy, we’ve got the Two of Hearts artichoke and palm Greek salad. Take a minute and check the menu; I’ll get your drinks and be right back.”

Didn’t take long to get their mugs; as I passed over the white porcelain cup filled with the dark liquid, I turned it so my fingers had to brush hers as she took it. I’ve gotten pretty damn good at making it look casual and yet the Red Head’s green eyes snapped up at me as if she knew the second the heat washed into her hands. It’s not much, just enough to warm a cup or a pair of chilled hands. Useless really except I never have to worry about making perfect toast.

“You decided?” The innocent routine worked best. They always assumed it was the cup, not their harried but handsome young waiter.

“I’ll have the soup,” the Red Head said.

“It comes with naan or I can get you cornbread.” Those eyes unnerved me, like she could see right through me and knew everything.

“Naan's good,” she replied.

“And you, sir?” I smiled at the guy because, yeah, I’m straight but not that straight. He was a hottie up close in that rugged, chiseled type.

“The grilled cheese special. That come with fries?” he asked.

“A side of patatas bravas. Trust me, you want them. Ah-maz-ing.” I winked at him and the sides of his mouth curled up in a grin.

“Then bring ‘em on. I like things spicy.”

“Stop flirting, Clint,” the Red Head nudged him across the table. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s incorrigible.”

“Not a problem. I prefer it to sullen silence anyday.” Truth, that was. Nice flirty customers were better tippers too. I headed off to put their order in, keeping half an ear on their conversation.

“Aw, come on Natasha. I’m going off to the middle of cold-assed nowhere to babysit. Let me have some fun.” Clint pouted.

“Guess you haven’t heard. Phil’s going to be there.” Her fond smile was aimed only at her companion. “You can amuse yourself by bumbling around him like a lovesick puppy.”

Two tables over, Antoine sighed and slumped down in his seat. “I thought she was the one!” he moaned, loud enough that the Red Head cast a glance his way. “I’ll never meet another like her.” His brown hair hung over his forehead and he idly flipped the pages of his Penguin edition of The Man with the Iron Mask.

His companion didn’t even look up from her chemistry textbook. “You said the same thing about the little blonde … what was her name? … and Paulina and Amanda and the others.” A long purple stripe highlighted the straight line of Katya’s dark black hair as she leaned over her ruled paper, writing long complex formulas.

Roy sat a salted caramel milkshake on my tray and a strawberry frappe; I dropped them off at the kids’ table, glancing through the window at a sea of white, a sudden squall that obscured the view of 4th Avenue. “Hey, man, don’t let her get to you,” I told him. “Drink your shake; you’ll feel better.”

The two had wandered in a little over a year ago during the transit strike; students at the international high school a couple blocks over, they’d been stranded with no way to get to their homes. Between the subway not working and the traffic that resulted when people tried to drive into the city, the whole place had been caught in gridlock. Antoine and Katya had snagged one of the two person booths and waited it out until the slowdown was over. They’d been coming back ever since, doing homework and mostly just becoming part of the family. Today, school had been dismissed early, and there was no one waiting for them in their respective houses, so they’d stopped in for lunch and stayed.

“Honestly,” Katya said, flinging her hair over her shoulder, purple shifting to red as she ran her hand through the length. “Which do you like better? Maybe blue?”

“What about the silver? That was nice.” Katya changed at a whim, just little details; her eyes had been every hue before she settled on a grey blue, at least for the moment.

“Too 80s. I’m going for a 60s retro look. Short with a flip.” She took a drink of her frappe. “Or maybe strawberry blonde?”

Antoine eyed her critically. “I don’t like the black. Too dark. Blonde would be nice.”

“Okay, what about this?” She ran her fingers through her hair and it changed, lightening to a golden hue mixed with auburn strands. The streak turned teal.  

As she turned, her elbow hit her cup, knocking it off the edge of the table. Rita caught it before it turned upside down, sitting it back down as she headed on to the cash register with a table’s check. The Red Head’s eyes narrowed as she followed Rita’s progress. Yeah, everyone thinks Rita’s a little odd; probably the way she just happens to be exactly where she needs to be.

Food was up by then, so I gathered the warm plates and delivered them to the table. A big bowl of soup, steam rising from the top, flakes of red pepper and chili slices floating among the noodles and fat shrimp. A side of flat grilled seasoned bread. Clint’s sandwich platter was piled high with homemade chips, a small ramekin filled with a chipotle dipping sauce; he needed both hands to pick up half of his sandwich, rich chicken and cheese oozing from between the slices, sauce running over her fingers.

The Red Head spooned up some broth and sipped. Her face flushed, a bead of sweat forming on her brow, and she smiled up at me. “Excellent,” she declared. “I bet Jasper loves this.”

“Jasper could eat straight habanero peppers and be fine; he’s got asbestos on his tongue.” Clint laughed then opened his mouth wide, pushing the edge of the sandwich in his mouth to get a big bite. “Oh my God,” he moaned, words mangled around the food he was chewing. “Oh. My. God.” He swallowed. “This is freakin’ amazing.”

I left them swapping bites; wasn’t the first time nor would it be the last food was passed around a table. A group of cops from the station around the corner came in; Mark hurried up cleaning off a booth, balancing two full tubs of dirty dishes on his way back to the kitchen, much to the delight of the patrons. The regulars knew better, but others always marveled at Mark’s ability to carry more than most people.

The place got busier as the snow refused to let up. All I had time to do was wonder if this was Phil the pancake guy’s Clint and, if so, damn, but I could understand.

**THOMAS DONALDSON**

I honestly can’t remember the first time I came into Callahan’s. I was still on the force, stationed in the 23rd precinct, and I suspect I followed some of the other guys through the door of this place. I’ve retired since then and somehow I just never dropped the habit of coming in. You know when you’ve got your own seat at the counter and Roy has your coffee ready before you take off your coat that you’re a regular. There’s a lot worse things I could be doing with the long hours of my day. At least here, I’m socializing like the Doc wants and I can be useful. You’d be amazed how many problems you can solve just by talking it out over a club sandwich.

Today, I had ordered Andy’s Broken Wings Chicken salad -- the wife is on a health kick lately and Andy makes a low fat, low sodium buffalo dressing that tastes like bar food and disguises the nothing blandness of the greens and grilled chickpeas and other veggies he tosses in.  A cup and a half of Roy’s decaf and I was feeling pretty mellow, chatting with Kris about Stark’s latest escapade and the strange world we live in. I knew Kris when he was Kristen; he cross-examined me on a few cases where we crossed paths. He’s much happier now, manning the counter and dispensing his own brand of talk therapy.

That’s when the guy came in by himself and took the stool two down from me. Brown leather jacket, plaid button up shirt, fresh pressed khakis. Military cut on his blonde hair, neat and trimmed. Lost look in his eyes, like a man who didn’t know where he was or why he was here.

“Something to drink?” Kris asked him.

“Cup of joe,” he replied.

“Coming right up. The specials are on the board,” Kris nodded to the chalkboard posted on the wall. “If you have any questions, just let me know.”

I knew that slump of shoulders, the air of resignation; I’d seen in on cops who’d burned out, on vets returning from the war and trying to pick up the pieces. Kid needed to talk. I have a sixth sense about these things. I just know. Question was always how to start the conversation.

“The Can’t Beat It Meatloaf,” Kayla said as she passed behind us with a full tray on the way to the corner booth. “Best in the borough, I promise. Get the mashed with it and the gravy. Oh, and Roy makes a mean milkshake.”

The guy blinked in surprise and looked over at me. “Yeah, she does that. It’s a gift; she’s good at matching food with people.” I didn’t tell him she literally could read what he wanted to eat; most people are kind of squirrelly about the whole mutant gene thing. Doesn’t matter if it’s a big mutation like blue skin and super strength or if it’s the ability to toast bread with your fingers. “She’s right, though. Andy’s meatloaf is worth every last carb and calorie. Three meats, garlic bread crumbs, chopped peppers, and his secret ingredient -- ground chorizo. It’ll cure what ails you.”

“Meatloaf it is.” He tucked the plastic sleeve of the menu back into the holder; Kris left a cup of coffee and nodded as he took the order. “And a chocolate milkshake.”

“Make that a malted, Roy,” Kayla called over her shoulder.

The guy laughed and a spark of life came back into his blue eyes. “Steve,” he offered as he held his hand out.

“Tom,” I replied. “I usually just sit down and wait for the food to show up.”

“Handy talent for a waitress,” Steve said. He added a bit of sugar then drank his coffee black.

“Which branch of the service?” I asked.

“That obvious?” He sat the cup down and sighed as Roy’s brew took away some of the aches and pains. “Army.”

“Yeah, you’ve got that just back look. I was a cop for years. Had the same problem for awhile after I retired. Civvies just don’t understand; get all caught up in running here and there, Starbucks and smart cars and 3D TVs.” I’d seen it far too often, the ones who couldn’t see the truth beyond the end of their nose. “Don’t know what it’s like to be on the frontline. The evil that’s out there. The selfishness, greed .. and the good parts too. The sacrifice and bravery. Kind of hard to get excited about buying designer curtains when you can’t turn off the memories.”

“So much stuff.” Steve shook his head, a small smile curling up the corner of his lips. “Someone took me to that Swedish store with all the furniture -- needed a bed for my place -- and I got lost. Then it took three hours to put the thing together; the instructions didn’t have any words.”

“The wife never leaves there without spending over a hundred dollars on junk. Brought home this lamp that was made of purple paper; why the hell do I need a paper lantern? It’s romantic, she said.” I snorted and forked up some chicken, a chunk of rye crouton and a few leaves of spinach.

“It’s a different world,” Steve agreed. “I think my phone could launch a missile if I press the right button.”

“I had to have Mal over there get mine to stop draining the battery in a couple hours.” I nodded to the burly teenager cleaning off a table top. “He’s on a kick about GPS and location devices. Says we’ve sold our soul to the government for text messaging and Facebook on the go.”

“Tracking on phones?” Steve asked. “They can do that.”

“Mal says so; you’ll have to ask him for more details, but be careful. He can talk for an hour about it.”

Kris slid Steve’s plate in front of him. The meatloaf was covered in brown brandy reduction gravy, a pile of mashed and spiced turnips, parsnips and potatoes beside it. One of Andy’s Texas size yeast rolls.  I’m man enough to admit I was jealous; Steve was young and fit and could eat what he damn well wanted.

I let him work on it for a few minutes, watching as his face lightened and his smile became more permanent. He paused to take the chocolate malted Roy handed him, drank a healthy swig then sighed.

“That’s good. Reminds me of home.” There it was, the sadness that haunted him invading in his words. “I miss it.”

“You’re not from around here then?” I asked carefully. This was the tricky part; get the emotion out and set it free. Yank too hard and they’d fold back into themselves.

“You could say that.” For a minute I thought I’d lost him, but then he took another big bite of meatloaf, swirled it into the mashed potatoes and hummed as put it in his mouth. “But this place reminds me of home.”

“Yeah, it’s good for that. We’re all kind of lost in our own ways, aren’t we? Nice to be lost together.”

Steve looked over at me and smiled. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Cherry pie for desert,” Kayla said. “I’ll get it.”

**MALACHI GRANT**

“Did you hear that?” Joy looked up from her laptop, tilting her head and peering out the window. She’d been on a writing jag the last few days, barely talking, her red hair bent over the keyboard from the time she arrived. Said she got more work done here than she would if she stayed home.

Tom stood up and walked to the entrance, cracking the door and peering out. “Like a boom? Then some … zipping?”

Setting his plastic tub half full of dishes on an empty booth seat, Mark put a knee on the red vinyl and pointed. “Low flying planes?”

People started running down 4th Avenue; cars slammed on their brakes, traffic grinding to a halt. Something … a glider maybe or a drone, I couldn’t say for sure ‘cause it was too fast … flew down the street. Wasn’t American, I knew that for sure. I’m not planning on being a busboy my whole life; one day, I’m going to Polytechnic and get my engineering degree. Soon as I can find someone dumb enough to loan a broke Southern boy a shit ton of money.  

“I think we ought to …” Rita was already ducking behind the counter as the blast hit the curve of the roof, blue sparks raining down as the walls shook. Everyone ducked; I threw my arms over my head like a dork as if that would make a difference if the building fell down on me.

“There’s more coming!” Tom shouted as he opened the door to let a fleeing family inside. The father had a squirming preschooler under one arm; the mother had a baby in cradled to her chest.  “Get under cover.”

I ended up huddled next to Mark in the back corner where I had a view out a window as the glider .. two parts, a driver’s position and an attached skid for two riders … zoomed down the alley to cut over to 5th. That’s when I realized the guys inside it weren’t human. Should have freaked me out but I was squished up next to a guy who claimed to be 1/16 alien himself, so what the hell, right?

Electricity flickered and the power went out. “I’ve got it,” I called. The ancient generator was in the back; I kept the thing running with spit and gum and a liberal dose of prayer. After tweaking a few wires,  it rolled right over, and the lights came back on.

By the time I got back, three more strays from the street had joined us, and Roy was pouring cups of coffee, Rita passing them around. “Better make more,” he said. “I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

We had a ringside seat to the battle. More and more people trickled in, finding their way into the relative safety. Andy and Rena started a big pot of chili. Roy made pot after pot of his mellow out blend. Kris was busy at the counter where Tom steered those most shaken up from his place guarding the door. Antoine and Katya slipped in and started helping Seb and Rita make the rounds of the slowly filling tables.

Occasionally, the fighting came close; once, I saw a man in red, white, and blue pause to knock down two of the creepy aliens. HIs blonde hair caught the light, and Tom laughed at the sight of our meatloaf loving Steve in his “uniform.”

“Missing home, my ass,” Tom said.

Iron Man buzzed by, his blasts blowing up a couple gliders; the pieces pattered down like heavy rain on the metal roof. Just behind him was a big green beast; Andy called it the Hulk and told a story about the Hulk destroying Harlem, and how they’d weathered that day by making enough lentil soup to feed the rescue crews.

First time one of the big flying whales went overhead, I decided I’d had enough of not knowing. Jacking one of the emergency radios in the kitchen, I found a channel with someone broadcasting a play-by-play of the whole damn thing including dropping names like Stark and Rogers and someone called Thor. Not sure that was better, but I for one preferred to know what was happening.

“We’ve got incoming,” Tom said, easing the door closed. “Anybody happen to have a firearm on them?”

Andy appeared from the doorway, a shotgun in one hand. Roy pulled another one from somewhere under the espresso machine and tossed it to Tom. A sharp knife in each hand, Rena stepped forward and Mark flanked her. “What’s the plan?” Mark asked.

A quick look floated between the two older men. “Make sure they fire their weapons away from the building. Hit ‘em with a couple rounds and see if they fall down,” Andy said. He looked over at Kris and Roy. “Get people out the back if we can’t hold ‘em.”

God, but I’ve never been so scared in my life as when Tom and Andy eased that door opened. I felt useless; so I can fix things? What difference does that make in the grand scheme of things. Rena was fast with her knives, Mark was strong, Andy and Tom had training. Me? Yeah, no.

The first volley took out one of the things and then Tom and Andy were running, drawing fire as they ducked behind a dumpster. A second blast hit the next one, a kitchen knife buried itself up to the hilt in another, but more kept coming. Just through the door, I saw one of those alien weapons bounce on the ground and roll towards the steps. Without thinking about it, I darted out and snagged it, ducking down behind the concrete and wrought iron railing. I pointed and pulled the trigger, or what I thought was a trigger. Nothing happened. One of the aliens was closing in on the diner; I didn’t have time to do more than run my hand along the length of the strange metal and think about how much I wanted it to work before I had to try again.

The recoil knocked me on my ass in a puddle. As I sat there, water soaking into my underwear, one of the remaining two drew up and screamed, an arrow protruding from its eye socket. A blur of black and red slammed into the other one, a deadly one woman force who flipped her hair back and looked at Tom and Andy.

“You got room inside?” Natasha asked. “There’s eight more people trapped in the Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner. Glass is broken and they’re vulnerable. Clint can cover them.”

“Bring ‘em,” Andy said. “We’ll find space.”

“Someone will be by for that,” she said, nodding to the weapon still clutched in my hands. “Keep it safe.”

We heard it all: Stark flying the missile into a hole in the sky, the Hulk catching him as he fell, the casualty count that went up and up, and the conflicting stories from the Mayor’s office, D.C., and the military. After the aliens all dropped dead and it seemed the battle was over, most of those who’d taken shelter headed out to find their homes. A few, including the family and a woman from the donut shop, stuck around to help. Andy set up a table on the corner and started offering Roy’s coffee to the people stumbling by. Chili went into paper cups with plastic spoons; everyone pitched in, cooking, pouring, handing off, running back and forth. Tom walked down to the station; soon the cops and firefighters and EMTS stopped by and filled up with curry rice or black bean soup as the chili ran out. Some guys in black suits showed a few hours into the cleanup; I was up on a ladder, checking the fuse box and power connections, but I slid down and handed over the alien weapon. They were interested in how I’d made it work, but Jasper showed up and they left.

Mark and I walked Rita home, all of us so tired that we just shuffled along. Tom had gotten the call that his wife had a broken arm and concussion, and he’d run off to the hospital. Everyone wanted to check in on friends and family so only Andy stayed to shutter up the diner. The whole way, we tried not to look at all the destruction, but it was impossible to miss.

“So.” Mark was the first to broach the subject. “Superheroes.”

“Everyone knew about Stark,” Rita said.

“Natasha was always bad ass,” I added. “I hope they’re all okay.”

“Wonder if they’ll come back to the diner?” Mark asked.

“You know,” I replied. “I think they will.”

 

 


End file.
